Morning after
by niagaraweasel
Summary: Basically just what the title says. A little tag to chapter 7 of veniceit's "Spiders vs. Snakes", so it will make absolutely no sense if you haven't read that story first.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Ilsa drifted up from a deep dreamless sleep to a feeling of almost perfect bliss. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so warm, safe and protected. Still more than half asleep, she automatically snuggled closer to the warm body behind her with a contented little sigh….. until the realization that there _was_ a warm body behind her and a pretty nearly naked one, too, hit her like the proverbial bucket of ice water. She would have jumped off the cot like a cat off a hot tin roof, if it weren't for the fact that Chance had apparently not moved an inch all night, as his arm was still securely wrapped around her waist. Tentatively she tried moving his arm, so that she could slip out from under it, but that only resulted in Chance mumbling something, pulling her even closer and burying his face in her hair. So much for sneaking out undetected before he woke up…. But if she was honest with herself, now that the first shock had worn off she didn't really want to move. If it weren't for the fact that they had a job to do and a life to save, she could have gladly stayed where she was for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, in this case common sense had to win out over desire. But since she couldn't hear any sounds from outside the tent no one else seemed to be awake yet, so there was nothing to stop her from enjoying it for just a few more moments….

Chance woke up to find something tickling his nose. Something soft and silky and smelling faintly of… was that lemons? Cautiously he opened his eyes and found that his face was practically buried in a cloud of dark bouncy curls that could belong to only one person – a person that was currently snuggled closely against him, while his arm was wrapped tightly around her waist. _Oh shit…._

He had no idea how or why Ilsa had ended up in his bed, but whatever the reason, she had most probably planned on sneaking back to her side of the tent before he woke up and would be mad as hell that her plan hadn't worked. And he certainly wasn't up to facing the wrath of Ilsa right now. Under different circumstances he wouldn't mind staying like this for a little longer – okay, okay…. a _lot_ longer – but although the rest of the camp seemed to be still asleep, some nosy soul could come into the tent at any moment and he certainly didn't want to be around when that happened. His body had taken enough abuse getting the damn idol. Maybe if he let go of her and rolled over….. Bad idea. Very bad idea. With the simple movement all of his injuries from the day before seemed to have woken up and now every single cut, scrape, bruise and abrasion was clamoring for his attention – loudly and insistently.

As soon as she noticed Chance's hold on her loosen, Ilsa prepared to scramble off the cot and back to her side of the tent – only to be stopped by a loud "Owwwwwww, dammit!" coming from behind her. Abandoning her original plan she quickly swung her legs off the cot and turned around to check on Chance. Even though the worst of the injuries were more or less neatly wrapped up, the ones that were still visible somehow looked even worse in the light of day. The blanket had slipped down to the foot of the cot and Ilsa could feel the blush heating up her face as her eyes traveled over every one of them.

"Good morning, Mr. Chance."

_Uh-oh… she was back to calling him "Mr. Chance" again. Not a very good sign…._

"How do you feel?"

_How do you think I feel? Like I've been run over by a herd of stampeding buffalo…_

"Morning, Ilsa. I'm fine, so you don't need to start fussing again…". Okay, that had come out all wrong – but there was no taking it back now.

_Oh yes, I can see that you're a veritable picture of health…._ But if that was the way he wanted to play it, there wasn't much she could do about it – at least not right now.

"Good. In that case I'll go and get us some coffee, while you get dressed." _…. So that I can start functioning like a responsible adult again, _a small voice inside Ilsa's head added as she got up and left the tent. Last night she had been too concerned about the appalling number of injuries and too focused on cleaning and treating them to really take notice of Chance's scantily clad body. This morning was a whole different kettle of fish…

When she returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of coffee, Chance had managed to put on his pants and was now visibly struggling with a shirt.

"Here, let me…." Ilsa moved to put the coffee down on the nightstand and help him, but he impatiently waved her off, almost knocking one of the mugs out of her hand in the process. He barely managed to suppress a groan as once again pretty much every part of his body protested the sudden movement.

"Ilsa, I've been dressing myself for a long time now. I don't need any help," he practically growled.

For a moment Ilsa seemed to freeze. Then with exaggerated care she put one of the mugs on the nightstand, straightened up and took a step back. Something he couldn't quite identify flashed in her dark eyes. "Well, in that case I will not inflict myself upon you any further," she said, sounding more Queen Mum than Chance had ever heard her.

Ilsa pretended to calmly sip her coffee and watch the spectacle, determined to suppress the urge to just slap his hands away and help him, whether he wanted her to or not. After all, they didn't have all day. But if he wanted to act like a cranky five-year-old, who was she to interfere….

After a few minutes of painful struggle and more or less suppressed groans, Chance had to admit defeat. With every movement sending a twinge of pain knifing through his body it would take ages to get the damn shirt on. And Ilsa just standing there patiently waiting for him to give up didn't make matters any better. For once even his stubbornness wasn't enough.

He looked up at her with his best wounded puppy look, hoping that she would get the unspoken message. And oh wonder – not one single comment came over her lips. She just gave him a little smile that was part satisfied "I told you so" and part gentle "poor baby", sat down beside him and quickly – and surprisingly efficiently – helped him to put on and button the shirt.

"What? You're not the first man I helped to dress," she answered the questioning look in his eyes matter-of-factly.

"We should probably get going, before someone comes looking for us".


End file.
